


Signs of Life

by sewn



Category: The Shannara Chronicles (TV)
Genre: Babies, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:40:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22829590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewn/pseuds/sewn
Summary: Pyria gives birth to her child in a village deep in the heart of Southland, surrounded by human women.
Relationships: Allanon/Pyria Elessedil (background), Pyria Elessedil & Mareth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Signs of Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [janetcarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/janetcarter/gifts).



Pyria gives birth to her child in a village deep in the heart of Southland, surrounded by human women, none of whom know who she is but who immediately take her in when she comes to them in the dark of the night. She had miscalculated: she hadn't realised that humans didn't gestate as long as elves did and how that would affect her.

Up until the moment Pyria sees her, she wonders if she'll know what to do with her baby. She never was very close to her nephews—they were too small to interest her when she still lived the life of a princess—and she only vaguely remembers the feeling of holding Eventine's children, afraid she'd drop them and damage the heirs to the throne. She was not the crown princess, so children were something she didn't think much about yet, preferring the company of books and the solitude of the forest.

But here she is now, tired, aching, with a tightly bundled newborn in her arms, handed to her by the smiling midwife.

Elven children are supposed to grow quickly after birth, born already clear-eyed and ready to learn, then remain youthful for much longer than humans. Eventine's children had all been glowing and quiet when handed to her. But Pyria's baby is noisy, and she squirms and drools. Her eyes are scrunched up, her whole face wrinkly, dark messy hair sticking to her damp cheek. Her ears peek out from the blanket, the tiny pointed tips barely noticeable. If not for them, she could be mistaken for a human.

That something so unfinished, so messy, so ugly could be born of her, is absurd and completely, utterly wonderful.

She does not write to her brother for two weeks. For a while it feels like she could continue like this, in a cocoon, pretending no one else exists. It is tempting: She is slowly getting used to having this odd little creature with her at all times. It feels like she could stare at her face, her tiny fingers and toes, for hours. But she knows she cannot close herself off from the world—and in any case, if Eventine found out himself that his sister had had a child, he would hunt her down. So Pyria writes him, as straightforward as possible, asking him to leave her alone, promising to come to visit once Mareth is a few years older. He always respected her wish to leave, and Pyria makes it clear she only wants her daughter to be raised as common folk. She can learn later that her blood is royal; she needs no official Naming ceremony. As she writes the name of her daughter for the first time and stares at the drying ink, it feels like she has Named her already.

What Pyria doesn't say is that she doesn't want Mareth to grow up missing something, and inside the gilded halls of Arborlon, everything and everyone would remind her—them both—of the father she won't have. She would be known as the Druid's daughter, and every time she walked down a hallway or through the gardens, the court elves would either stare or quickly turn away. At best, she'd be treated with curiosity, at worst, with fear and disdain.

It is much kinder not to return.

Eventine writes back in his brusque style—Pyria doesn't see his messenger as she has asked her letters to be delivered to the village, which she now visits every couple of days—and to her relief, he doesn't argue. He doesn't mention it either, but enclosed with his letter is a stack of older letters, the ones she left in her study, the ones she wanted to burn.

Pyria considers burning them now. She turns them around in her hands by the fire. She is only pulled out of her thoughts when Mareth shrieks, an irritating sign of life she has come to cherish. As she rocks her baby and sings to her in the faerie tongue, she decides the letters can wait another day.


End file.
